


Denny's Christmas Wish - The Director's Cut

by Anonymous



Category: Boston Legal
Genre: A little angst, Christmas, Christmas reveals, Denny's POV, Friends to Lovers, I mean-we all know, M/M, Maybe a tiny bit Star Trek character crossover, My First Work in This Fandom, My Merry Christmas Present to you and actually to me, a lot of discovery, and pretty sure my last, some episodic dialogue mixed in with what should have been there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They say that for everyone, there is someone.I’ve been lucky. No, scratch that. I’ve MADE my own luck. I’ve found my special someone many times over the years, once even in the luscious form of a catering goddess in the coat room at my fifth (or was it the fourth? Sixth? Damned mad cow) wedding reception.But one special Christmas, I finally discovered...I actually have a soul...and a mate.
Relationships: Denny Crane/Alan Shore
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	Denny's Christmas Wish - The Director's Cut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KSForever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KSForever/gifts).



> For KSForever, who most likely doesn't even realize how much their support and kind Spirk world comments of the past have always been appreciated!

They say that for everyone, there is someone. From the most coveted 'soul mate' down to just someone who can put up with you past the first snore. Nobody’s put on this planet without there being someone who can fill that empty need we often become all too well acquainted with following puberty (during which, let’s be honest, pretty much any available hand does the trick).

I’ve been lucky. No, scratch that. I’ve MADE my own luck. I’ve found my special someone many times over the years, once even in the luscious form of a catering goddess in the coat room at my fifth (or was it the fourth? Sixth? Damned mad cow) wedding reception.

My best friend, Alan Shore, was always more than willing to tolerate my indiscretions and escapades, more often than not because he was much too busy with his own to do much judging of anyone else's.

No matter what I managed to drag him through, we also still managed to get our shit together by evening’s end and meet for cigars and scotch on my tastefully appointed office balcony. We seldom let anything get in the way of winding down together after work. Not even hurrying off to  
bed our latest score.

(I would call it 'conquest' but that word doesn't really apply when money is involved.)

I’ve always been a hands-on type of guy with everyone, though I’m well known to be a flaming homophobe. Always have been. Always will. I assure you, I KNOW which side of my bread to butter.

Of course, there are those who scoff at Alan’s and my friendship.

We have sleepovers. As I always say (pounding my chest): MALE BONDING. PERFECTLY NORMAL. GET OVER IT. All men do it. They just call it camping.

We’ve been known to go to costume parties as a matched set. Friends do that. Alan once even made me unexpectedly uncomfortable by going decked out as my Shirley Schmidt-Ho blow-up doll. And yeah, once we both dressed as Tracy Turnblad, though I’ll be damned if I was going dressed as a girl without my cigar, leaving absolutely no question that I’m ALL man. A man’s man, in fact. 

More about that later.

There were some questionable moments. But I only admit that to you, so don't go spreading it. There was a huge one at Nimmo Bay, while attempting to entertain Alan and divert his attention from the departure of the splendid Tara. No, she didn’t die. She just left him. Staring miserably off into the distance, all mopey. Unable to focus on work. I mean, who wouldn't grieve a little until you find the next one? But I don't believe in moping—too many fish in the sea. I admit though, she was an amazing specimen, even if she did always roll her eyes at my advances. It just encouraged me to try harder. Until I realized she was more than a casual thing to Alan. We have a standing guy rule about that kind of behavior.  
  
But I've always known the way to a man's aching heart. Through REAL MAN ACTIVITIES. In other words, a few days river fishing.

“You’re not getting my bone,” I’d teasingly barked when we went back to our cabin and climbed into our separate beds, frustrated that I'd not caught a thing all day, while Alan, exhibiting incredible beginner's luck, caught one. (Yes yes yes, I know. It was eleven but never mind that right now). We'd cleaned up and changed into our pajamas, Alan insisting since it was absolutely freezing outside that he would remain bundled inside his coat and gloves all night. We'd each claimed our preferred twin bed, a la Lucy and Desi, Rob and Laura. I adamantly insisted that even though we shared a room, Alan knew without question that my sexual preferences NEVER varied. Ever. No situational ethics; no matter how much Alan whined how he missed having Tara in his bed; no matter how much lech ran through my veins. I wasn't there to provide _that_ kind of interim comforting. I was only drawn to half of the human population. Less, really. I was no Billy Crystal. I was never up for bonking the ugly ones. But all the others, yeah. I could always get it up for them. I kept plenty of medication on hand, and my rubbers were neatly lined up on my keychain.

Then seven hours later as I stirred slightly at the rising sun blazing through our cabin windows, throbbing hard with lusty morning wood while buried deep inside the paradise that was a 1980's Raquel Welch; before I roused enough to realize I wasn’t actually fondling her spectacularly magnificent store-bought breasts; I woke aghast to instead find myself tightly cuddled against a sleeping, coat engulfed Alan. With lightning strike speed I bolted off the bed, stunned, frozen in shock, staring at him as he jumped up, sputtering silly excuses why he’d left his bed and climbed into mine, wrapping himself around a sleeping, rhythmically snoring me. Only of purest motive, he'd assured me, all the while my mind was screaming, “IN A PIG’S EYE!”

Alan had never shared any tales of his youthful physical experimentation with me. I didn’t know if he had any of the...same-sex kind. Didn’t want to know. Certain knowledge can ruin a great friendship, you know.

But was I being stupid, I pondered under the steamy hot shower, to want so badly to believe his pleas of innocence? Yet at a loss to explain why he had felt so good lying next to me, my hardness pressed against his thigh. Speaking of which, I suddenly became aware I had been...unwittingly tugging on that not so little problem.

For damned sure, we would never speak of it again, as Alan just minutes ago had promised.

Right. As if Alan would ever stop bloviating as long as he wasn't asleep. Actually, I knew firsthand he talked in his sleep, too. No, wait. Absolutely no hands were involved. You perv.

We had only just returned to the office from Canada before Alan managed to somehow raise suspicions with Shirley and Paul, who apparently couldn’t wait to _discreetly_ pass said suspicions down the firm's rapid rumor chain that Alan and I were sleeping together. Alan spoke of us still having "that glow.” But I was just too fishy stinking and exhausted and confused to argue.

. .

“Huh uh, you’re not gettin’ under THIS dress,” Alan mockingly scolded, catching my leer at the hem of his white Turnblad dress (shut up, it was just force of habit), which currently matched my own attire, as we sat knees spread guy-style in our usual chairs on the balcony, smoking and imbibing, following the latest Crane, Poole and Schmidt costume party. Usually when they accuse me of chasing anything in a skirt, they don’t mean a cross-dressing male. Still, for some reason I couldn't yet explain, my shower might need to be a bit cooler tonight. And I was too exhausted and confused to argue.

Especially with myself.

. .

We'd danced together more than once during our acquaintance. I couldn’t help but notice Alan and I fit together quite well. But I’d never danced with any other man before. Maybe all guys fit together. How should I know?

But then, there was the holiday party Paul always insisted the firm throw to facilitate comraderie and cohesion among the employees.

Though Alan and I sometimes coordinated theme costumes, other times like now, we just...surprised each other when we showed up. So I went. I drank. So did Alan. We danced. Not with each other, gutter brain. 

Alan obviously had been dancing closely with Lorraine, because now, while enjoying our evening constitutional on the balcony, a gentle draft wafted the remains of her intoxicating perfume from where she'd rubbed up against Alan’s skin and clothes straight to my nasal senses, taunting me wickedly. It was nothing less than the scented version of nectar from the gods. Probably the $800 an ounce kind of nectar. I almost levitated on that classically elegant breeze.

When Alan finally finished his nightly pontificating on whatever subject had him going on and on, so that I could finally get a word in, I enviously described the effect the fragrance held over me. And then, even to my own surprise, I found myself asking Alan if I could just smell him. Somehow, I'd become completely captivated by the exquisite scent, to the point that drinking it in was all I longed for as my Christmas gift from Alan. Rolling his eyes as usual, Alan actually stood and brought me to stand before him, pulling me close, my nose not quite brushing his neck where the scent lingered most intense. It was...heavenly.

The perfume, I mean. The perfume.

I became so hard I thought my cock would split.

Even with no medication.

And then Alan sniffed into my neck, detecting the cologne worn by one of the go-go dancers I'd danced and played with.

I found myself nosing along Alan’s neck, mirroring his actions; not merely aware of the perfume there but actually more intoxicated by something...else.

Oh my God. It was Alan. It was Alan’s natural scent that was causing my very powerful physical reaction.

How could this be? I’m homophobic. Everyone knows. I tell them all myself. Clearly and succinctly.

And yet, here I was, my very being _succinctly_ filled with Alan’s presence. I was suddenly acutely aware of everywhere his hands, his clothes touched me, and the air was electrified by each contact point. Instead of pulling away, I found myself wanting more. More touching. More of Alan's tantalizing skin.

When the hell did Alan's skin become tantalizing?

I started to panic, fueled by the raging lusty desire throbbing through my body.

I don’t know how much Alan perceived, but he reached up to whisper in my ear, “Merry Christmas, Denny.” I whispered back, “Merry Christmas, my friend. Sleepover?”

At that moment, I finally surrendered to the truth; the obvious answer to all my questions and uncertainty, all doubt removed.

Alan had somehow become much more to me than just the best damned friend a man could ever have. Friends’ touches don’t inflame. And here, even the hint of Alan’s breath on my ear singed me. Apparently, I’d actually been besties with my soul mate and didn't even realize it.

But of course, there were so many women who had passed through Alan’s very active personal life, much as I couldn't begin to name most who had previously spent personal time with me..unless, of course, I married them...I think. I didn't know what exactly I dared say. Dared do.

My love for Alan washed over me, the cleansing wave taking with it the memory of vast numbers of touches and broken promises, both mine and of all the women who came before him. I felt...brand new again. Like this was what I’d been looking for all my life. And here it had been right in front of me for years, and I’d been too stubborn, too blind to even consider, much less see it. In spite of all we'd teased.

The smell and softness and warmth of Alan pressed against me on the balcony lingered with me for hours. That night, I needed no little pill while thinking of Alan, who lay sound asleep down the hall in the guest room, where he almost always stayed during our sleepovers, except during those sporadic episodes when he was attacked by night terrors. I’d wanted him to spend this night in my bed. Desperately. But I was too unnerved to even consider suggesting it to him. I didn't trust him. No, mostly, I didn't trust myself.

I was well versed in him wishing me good night as he carried the last of his drink with him to his room on those occasions.

. .

As the days, the months passed by, I dropped little hints. We more and more freely said I love you to each other, in the guise of an epic friendship, at least on my part. Alan often kidded our clients that we could both be present for their evidentiary meetings as we were 'married.'

Once, as I was particularly exuberant after Alan and I were awarded an unexpected winning decision, I worried Alan had caught me.

I immediately blamed it on Valerie—mad cow rearing its ugly head again, as our client’s name was actually Carol; my screw-up there for all the world to see in early morning reruns on the Mystery channel at 6:30 Eastern time, and in transcripts—when after the verdict was announced and I as usual attempted to feel up our client (shut up, it was only force of habit), I turned to Alan and grabbed him, hugging tightly. Alan’s eyes widened as he disgustingly shoved me away, yelling “Geez Denny! For God's sake!” when he couldn’t help but be poked by my surprise erection. I was taking meds. He should have understood that and just finished the hug, right? It was as much his fault as mine, right?

But my heart sank and my stomach balled up in sick dread as I realized what this meant. Alan brooked no sexual feelings from me whatsoever. In fact, he seemed completely repulsed at my physical reaction. And why wouldn’t he? We were both strapping hets. It wouldn’t make sense for Alan to even hesitate in reacting this way to my arousal pressed against him. Again.

So, fine. I knew now definitely. I had to stop kidding myself that there was any chance. My desire for him physically had nowhere to go.

But I was a changed man, and there was no going back.

As we approached the very next winter holiday season, I determined that this was what I really wanted for Christmas this year. To know for certain that I would be close to Alan always, no matter on what terms or what the playing field limits. He could call the shots and I’d be totally happy to just be...in his ample orbit.

But there was more to it than mere lust. I wanted, I _needed_ to know that when the day came when I'd walk away from the firm my final time, my name removed from the wall, that no door would be closing between Alan and me. There were many other balconies in Boston. We’d find one. Or I'd buy one.

And honestly, I couldn’t get past the nagging, overriding lesson I’d learned from a lifetime practicing law: Don’t Blindly Trust The Legal System. America's was unquestionably the best on Earth, but still nowhere near good enough. Not for the final years of Denny Crane.

Alan was my closest confidant, and I had a way of inordinately getting into trouble without even meaning to. Some things I’d shared with him could _and would_ be held against me.

Furthermore, I had more money than God, with no children to leave it to—or at least none that had come forward to claim rights to any future inheritance. I wanted my savings and investments used for the good of the one I loved most: Alan. He alone did I trust with my millions. And I knew he’d use them in a way of which I’d approve. Wine, women, song...damned pro bono indigents. However he wanted it spent or saved, that's what I wanted.

It had become all too painfully clear I’d never buy Nimmo Bay or any other fishing lodge for that matter, as I had dreamily described to Alan on this very balcony.

I only knew one way to absolutely guarantee Alan inherited everything without the government taking a huge, greedy, undeserved chunk of it.

And there was no use denying it—I was running out of time. The mad cow increasingly befuddled my brain, though I kept taking different trial medications that hadn’t quite made it to the legal markets yet. In America at least.

It was now or never, though blustery winds tried their best to drive us back inside my office. I barely felt the cold, my nerves had me so tightly wound.

“Alan, I wanna ask you something, and you may think this is crazy. But I want you to think about it.”

(What the hell? I’m Denny Crane. I’ve successfully guided multi-billion dollar corporations through million-dollar litigations; faced literally hundreds of judges, thousands of juries over the course of my decades long career. And NOW is when I’m the most nauseated with fear in my entire life?)

“Alan. Will you marry me? I know the sex is lousy. But it's legal in Massachusetts. Same-sex marriage. And there are going to be decisions ahead—medical decisions that a spouse gets to make if I should become...”

“Wait wait wait. Shut up, Denny. Just...wait. **  
**  
“What did you say to me? You’re saying the sex will be lousy? Really? I mean, how lousy? Which part of it? How...how do you know it’ll be lousy? You’ve never even TRIED sex with me yet. Have you been cheating on me with some other guy? Who? Was it with Jerry? I mean, I can see how sex with Jerry would be lousy.

“But I...you said all these years...many _many_ times...that you’re homophobic. 100% homophobe. Firmly. I even defended you in court on your gay solicitation charge and beat it. So how could you know it will be lousy?”

Well, to tell you the truth, I had imagined this scenario over and over through the past few weeks and the many possible directions it might take as I’d contemplated my moment of truth.

This was decidedly NOT one of those possibilities I’d considered and prepared for. But a good attorney is always quick to think on his feet. Denny Crane.

“Uh, not to overstate the obvious, Alan, but I don’t have boobs. Not the fun kind anyway. And I DO have a dick. Not your usual evening fare, at least as far as I've ever seen.”

“Denny, just to make this completely clear. What you're saying is if I agree to marry you, there WILL be sex? Just that it’ll be lousy, but still, sex, right?” Alan peered at me through dubious eyes.

“Well, I guess that depends. Would you even WANT sex? I mean, with me, lousy or otherwise? And no, I’ve not been practicing with anyone else's body parts, especially not Jerry's.”

Alan glared at me, perhaps contemplating the possibility that I’d been lying to him for years about my true sexuality. Like I may have been to myself. I wasn't sure yet.

“Sex with me could never be lousy, Denny. I’d never allow that. I’ve never been with a man before either, but I’m a quick study. I can learn. I do have ready access to porn.”

“Alright, so now that we've settled that part, are you saying you WILL marry me? Or...not?” Actually, if I was confused before, I was much more now.

“Denny, we don’t need to get married. You can stipulate by living will or assign me your power of attorney to make your medical decisions should you ever be incapacitated to do so yourself.”

“There _are_ other reasons, Alan. How many times have I been arrested? And what are the odds of my getting arrested again for who knows what? And I need to be able to freely tell you things.”

“I’m your lawyer, Denny. Attorney-client privilege covers all that. You don’t need me to be your husband.”

“But Alan, you and I both know that although you'd resist, the police could subpoena you and try and force you to reveal whatever I tell you. You could be held in contempt if you refused. You could end up in jail. Again, I mean.

“On the other hand, if you had spousal privilege I could talk to you without ever worrying about you incriminating yourself later. Alan, for my peace of mind, the little piece I have left...”

“Denny, let’s be serious...”

“And as legal spouses," I barreled on, ignoring his objections, "I can transfer property to you without paying gift tax. And since the rate is a hundred percent...”

“Denny, what we've got now is so great. Why ruin it with marriage?”

“Because I don't know how long I have left. And even of the time I have left, who knows how long I’ll be able to remember who you are? Or even who I am?

“And the truth is, if you’re my husband, I can give you everything I own, everybody else hands off. What’s mine is yours. Except the mad cow, of course. The cleanest, simplest most efficient transfer of property is marriage."

“It's beyond ridiculous, even for us, Denny.”

“I haven't told you, Alan, but I've always wanted to remarry before I die. And like it or not you're the man I love. I know, you already know I love you. But in the past year I’ve realized...it's more than that. I really do love you. I mean, actually, really. I’m in love with you. Take my hand, Alan. Take my money.”

“Denny, I always thought if I were to get married again it would be for love and romance.”

“Then that makes us two for two. It's love and romance I'm offering you. Well, money, love and romance. The third is a bonus. Let it become your Christmas wish. It's already mine. You love me. And though we've always found that romance never lasts, money can. And...I promise I’ll work on making the sex not so lousy on my end, either.

"I really do love you, Alan. And I want to figure out how to make love to you. With you. As many times as I can with what's left of this body.

“I mean, I never thought I could be a homo. But I know even just what we have now together makes me happy. Your love, your friendship, they make me happy. Somehow...they complete me, all credit to Cruise. And, I'm on board for watching enough guy-on-guy porn together till we figure out how to at least be gay for each other.”

Alan sighed, resigned to the inevitable. I've always been the best in the world at making an impenetrable closing argument, even though Alan is a close second. But unlike Alan, I still retain my lifetime record as undefeated. Never lost. Never will. 

“Okay, Denny. I will marry you. And I want to learn to be so good at this, you’ll forget all the women who came, quite literally, before me.”

“They’re already forgotten, my friend. I only have eyes...and body for you now. And I’ll enjoy making you forget all the women in your past, too. Except for your wife, of course, rest her soul. We both want you to remember her always. She's probably looking down right now, laughing at us."

“Denny, I have a confession to make. All these evenings, sucking the smoke through these long, thick phallus symbols every night together, chasing them with scotch. I've actually wondered before, and now I think I've decided it's true: we’ve been practicing together for this moment since the day we met.

“And I admit, I find the idea intriguing, learning all these new ways to...spread cheer with each other. It sounds like... _great_ fun. And speaking of spreading, as you know I, for one, have always believed there’s no time like the present to get down to it and see how well all that practice pays off. So sit back down, fiancé, and spread those legs for me so I can practice hands on.”

“Alan, here? Others can see.”

"So it would seem, but only those above the 15th floor. And we both are well experienced performing before judges. What do you say we have them hold up score cards like they do in the Olympics. Surely I can pull down at least a 7.1 on my first official attempt.”

And with that, the soon to be Mr. Alan Shore-Crane proceeded to prove to the world, or at least to the neighboring highrise occupants, just how much of a 'man’s man' I am.

His man. Till death do us part.


End file.
